The Visitor's Humor and Other Stories

WATER TOWER Up north along the Canadian border the small towns are built between the swamps and trees. There's a reason for this, the founding fathers intended to knock down every tree standing. This is why they came. Back in those days every man in the bush and every man in town had character, an original, vibrant character. In the summer the lumberjacks brushed off mosquitoes and swung at flying bulldogs as they chopped with the axes and pulled on the crosscut saws. In the winter and minus thirty below zero the lumberjacks ate like immoral giants and swung their axes and pulled on their crosscut saws in a violent and hurried pace to combat the cold. Then the women came north and the churches and whore houses were built. And these women each had a beautiful individual character. The church women walked through the mud with hurried steps and swatted mosquitoes and slapped at the loud buzzing bulldogs on their way to church. The working girls walked in the mud with hurried steps and swatted mosquitoes and slapped at bulldogs on their way to the wooden banks. In the winter and minus thirty below zero the church women kept their legs close together and walked with rapid baby steps through the loud crunching snow and fierce cold on their way to the churches. On the way to the wooden banks the prostitutes walked well back on their heels and took long strides through loud crunching snow and fierce cold. Everyone hurried year round in these border towns. And this built character in the people. Everyone had a story to tell. Everyone had their own philosophy and logic to live by. Then the movie houses and soon the telephone came to the northern towns. And a few years later the television set came north and now the internet and the cellphone. And real character died with the times. The towns are still there, but the people with character are gone. Dead. Try to find an original character in one of these towns. A person could search for three weeks and still have a hesitant squeeze on the first finger. The Car Wash The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee entered Ruthie's nostrils. She did not stir except to open one eye. And it was angry. She could picture her husband -16 years her senior- downstairs and everything he was doing. Puttering around accomplishing nothing. He always woke up and left his bedroom two hours before she rose. "Where does he get his enthusiasm? Where does he get his hope to live fully another day?" she wondered. "All he is, is a snoring, limp-dick old man of 82." One hand came out from under the blankets, and it searched for the three hairs growing on her chin. She pulled on them, "They're a half inch long now. I should pluck them again," she said to herself. Then she put her arm up in front of her face and gazed at the age-spots. She squirmed and kicked her feet. "He sleeps all night while I pace the floor and raid the fridge again and again. He's robbing me, sucking my enthusiasm for life away." She decided right then to pick a fight with her husband the moment her right foot landed onto the main floor. Their house on 1202-46 Ave. had been paid off years ago. Still, macaroni with powdered cheese, or spaghetti with only the sauce, were on the table for one meal a day. A one-car garage stood at the back end of their lot. If a person looked close, they would see the building listed slightly to the east. There wasn't much inside, just a couple of snow tires that might get through another winter. Two coils of garden hose hung on the west wall. Some hand tools for their small garden were propped up in one corner. An oily five foot shelf held a two gallon gas can and two quarts of 30 weight oil. And an old rusty yard-sale lawn mower was parked along a wall. At 9:37, Ruthie descended the staircase in her bathrobe. When her left foot landed on the main floor, her husband said, "Good morning." Then her right foot hit the floor. "How come you always get up so early?"